Tuesday, September 7, 2010
This crude live-action takeoff on the Cabbage Patch phenomenon ought to have had star Anthony Newley humming 'Stop the Movie, I Want to Get Off.'
I learn to masturbate during a sleepover with Jaime. We’re lying in our sleeping bags and he tells me to rub mine. I do it and it feels peculiar reminding me of tying a balloon knot or climbing higher than I ever have before. It’s swollen and very warm. Small sticky raindrops appear over purple lips. They taste salty sweet. In a moment of profound embarrassment, I convulse in the plaid, red bag soaking the inside with what I worry is piss.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
"DeBoard met the victim, who is under 16 years old, through acquaintances and had inappropriate contact with her over the summer," Detective Matt Kiebles said.
My buddy tells me that, at Rebecca's wedding shower, his wife gives her two books on enhancing oral sex. She holds them up and laughs and says, well, I don’t need this one anymore, and throws the penis book on the floor. When she leaves she keeps a close eye on the vibrator, and the candy nipple pasties.
When I see her in her wedding dress I consider leaping into the creek and running off through the thick hayseed.
We’re married and we do the normal things.
We drink too much and smoke too much pot and I no longer romance her and she’s no longer interested. She fucks like she is doing me a favor. It isn’t a very good favor. We talk about nothing but our days at work = we become soundboards for daily aggressions.
She tells me about the computer repair man at work who flirts with her.
She never wears her ring because it got crystallized in candle wax and she never cleaned it, and she doesn’t tell the computer repair man she is married.
I begin writing stories about kidnappings and murders.
One story follows a man through his morning routine, where he prepares for work, showers, eats breakfast, takes the long drive in. He sits down at his desk and his secretary brings him a cup of coffee and then leaves. He locks the door behind her. Then he walks to his closet taking off his coat and tossing it on his swivel chair.
He opens the door revealing a teenage girl bound with electrical tape around her ankles and wrists. There is a handkerchief stuffed into her mouth and tape over her mouth and eyes. She is covered in sweat and bruises and as the flash of air from the opening door cuts at her unwashed flesh she shakes, and nervous tufts of air burst fitfully from her nostrils.
When I see her in her wedding dress I consider leaping into the creek and running off through the thick hayseed.
We’re married and we do the normal things.
We drink too much and smoke too much pot and I no longer romance her and she’s no longer interested. She fucks like she is doing me a favor. It isn’t a very good favor. We talk about nothing but our days at work = we become soundboards for daily aggressions.
She tells me about the computer repair man at work who flirts with her.
She never wears her ring because it got crystallized in candle wax and she never cleaned it, and she doesn’t tell the computer repair man she is married.
I begin writing stories about kidnappings and murders.
One story follows a man through his morning routine, where he prepares for work, showers, eats breakfast, takes the long drive in. He sits down at his desk and his secretary brings him a cup of coffee and then leaves. He locks the door behind her. Then he walks to his closet taking off his coat and tossing it on his swivel chair.
He opens the door revealing a teenage girl bound with electrical tape around her ankles and wrists. There is a handkerchief stuffed into her mouth and tape over her mouth and eyes. She is covered in sweat and bruises and as the flash of air from the opening door cuts at her unwashed flesh she shakes, and nervous tufts of air burst fitfully from her nostrils.
“I’ve said, ‘OK, I hope somebody will manifest,’ but nobody has,” Dawn Julian said. “I’m convinced, probably because I want to be, that it’s a woman playing tricks because I call the building an Old Dame.”
The night before Father’s Day I ingest two jelly tabs and smoke an eighth of weed. Jelly tabs are apparently derivatives of heroin. Before this I regularly consume LSD, pot, booze, cigarettes, Robitussin when things fall through, pills, hash and snuff.
I turn 19 and my roommate scores jellies. We close our eyes and that was it. The overhead lights in Wilson Farms are an exaggeration, Twinkies are eternity, and the cashier Lamar cashes us out without making eye contact, one head phone blushes his ear and the other, angles directly against the customer. We walk proudly along street shoulders, arms pretending falcons. Tony is there, this big fucking tank of dumb flesh, slightly too intelligent for use. Gordon is there after twenty years of carrying fat and he has decided to get in shape carrying five pounds in each hand wherever we go.
We go to the movies that night and watch Clerks in the old Amherst theater where they wear old timey film house attire. I get Reese’s Pieces and sit in the middle back. Dante is trying too hard.
That night I sleep one inch above my sheets with my eyes open. I go the bathroom several times because I think I have to shit but I realize it’s an itch that begins in my asshole and turns inward so that I want to scratch my liver with a wooden spoon.
That morning is Father’s Day. Jasmine and I break up over the telephone. We both cry because we don’t know what else to say.
That night I go to my parent’s house and my father cooks steak and drinks scotch. My mother yells, “Steven” in a pleasingly embarrassed authoritative tone when he walks up behind her doing the dishes and rattles her breasts from behind, while my brother’s and I clear the table.
I turn 19 and my roommate scores jellies. We close our eyes and that was it. The overhead lights in Wilson Farms are an exaggeration, Twinkies are eternity, and the cashier Lamar cashes us out without making eye contact, one head phone blushes his ear and the other, angles directly against the customer. We walk proudly along street shoulders, arms pretending falcons. Tony is there, this big fucking tank of dumb flesh, slightly too intelligent for use. Gordon is there after twenty years of carrying fat and he has decided to get in shape carrying five pounds in each hand wherever we go.
We go to the movies that night and watch Clerks in the old Amherst theater where they wear old timey film house attire. I get Reese’s Pieces and sit in the middle back. Dante is trying too hard.
That night I sleep one inch above my sheets with my eyes open. I go the bathroom several times because I think I have to shit but I realize it’s an itch that begins in my asshole and turns inward so that I want to scratch my liver with a wooden spoon.
That morning is Father’s Day. Jasmine and I break up over the telephone. We both cry because we don’t know what else to say.
That night I go to my parent’s house and my father cooks steak and drinks scotch. My mother yells, “Steven” in a pleasingly embarrassed authoritative tone when he walks up behind her doing the dishes and rattles her breasts from behind, while my brother’s and I clear the table.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
"I've gone out on dates with girls and said to them, 'Well, I've done two Ironmans'," said Polden. " ... They don't even have a clue. And then when you explain it to them, they ... say, 'All in one day?' And Kelly can appreciate that.
Well, here goes. I’m 31 years old. Always wanted to say years young but it just sounds funny. So, that being said, I’m 31 years old. I’m a poet and attempted novelist teaching writing at a local college. Because I’m an adjunct I also sling lattes at Starbucks. I could go into greater detail, but this is supposed to be a profile, a snapshot. I was married for eight months to a devout Christian woman who denounced god. Been divorced for two years; people keep telling me it’s nice to see me again, like I’ve been gone away in the mountains or something. Sometimes I say, it’s nice to be back.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
This pub and restaurant has a really good vibe to it. The servers are friendly (see "Crush" on my profile) and the food is pretty tasty. Their music system needs to be upgraded (speakers are all treble) but if you look around, people are laughing, having a good time, and smiling. It's a great place to grab a beer, meal, and "kick it" with your peeps.
After we sign the papers I can’t even look her in the eye. It looks like her hairline is receding. I walk with her until we fork. She says she’s meeting her family at Southern Sun for burgers and beer. I tell her that I miss her, that I miss burgers and beer and playing trivia with her embarrassingly intelligent father (whom my friends have nicknamed giggle-fits) in the waiting area. You can’t talk to me like that anymore. You’re not the one I go to anymore. You can’t talk to me like that anymore.
"We're hoping that somebody saw something; somebody knows somebody that was driving along there that can tell them about this, and we just need that one phone call or that one e-mail or that one person to come in and see us and give us a little piece of information," Roberts said.
I move to Boulder, CO to start graduate work at Naropa University. Alyssa comes with me. She’s unusually close with her mother and talks to herself and cries for most of the day and night. She was Keith’s girlfriend for three years. He still claims he made her cum so hard she passed out and fell off the bed.
She gets a job at a bagel place, someplace where it’s terribly obvious that she doesn’t belong. When she comes home she knits these dramatic shawls that remind me of homeless people.
I spend most of my time smoking dope my brother slipped into my bag, dope I didn’t know I had until I was in Nebraska. When I go grocery shopping I blast Radiohead on my headphones and I only shop at night, high, after crying. I go shopping almost every night.
On the drive out we stay at a Howard Johnson’s. There’s only one bed and I really think we’re going to do it. We drive the rest of the way with my leg shaking and her head staring out the window. In our studio loft apartment we both sleep on a deflating air mattress. One night the tips of my fingers crawl along her thigh and I rest my chin on her elbow. She smells of coconut and vanilla and her skin feels like butter. She rolls over and then whispers. You must be very lonely.
The next night I make chicken flavored Ramen noodles with half a green pepper and spend $18 on a bottle of Gordon’s Gin. I like sucking up the noodles with chopsticks and pretending they’re nourishing. I get high and eat my food and drink one third of my gin.
Alyssa climbs down from the loft. She turns on the stove and heats up water before crunching up a pouch of oriental flavored Ramen noodles. She sets the crinkled pouch on the counter, walks into the bathroom and closes the door. When she comes out most of her water has evaporated.
I write twelve pages of poetry and fall asleep on the toilet for forty-five minutes with my pants around my ankles and no shit in the toilet. Alyssa wakes me and then closes the door behind her. That night I am too drunk to climb the ladder to the loft.
She gets a job at a bagel place, someplace where it’s terribly obvious that she doesn’t belong. When she comes home she knits these dramatic shawls that remind me of homeless people.
I spend most of my time smoking dope my brother slipped into my bag, dope I didn’t know I had until I was in Nebraska. When I go grocery shopping I blast Radiohead on my headphones and I only shop at night, high, after crying. I go shopping almost every night.
On the drive out we stay at a Howard Johnson’s. There’s only one bed and I really think we’re going to do it. We drive the rest of the way with my leg shaking and her head staring out the window. In our studio loft apartment we both sleep on a deflating air mattress. One night the tips of my fingers crawl along her thigh and I rest my chin on her elbow. She smells of coconut and vanilla and her skin feels like butter. She rolls over and then whispers. You must be very lonely.
The next night I make chicken flavored Ramen noodles with half a green pepper and spend $18 on a bottle of Gordon’s Gin. I like sucking up the noodles with chopsticks and pretending they’re nourishing. I get high and eat my food and drink one third of my gin.
Alyssa climbs down from the loft. She turns on the stove and heats up water before crunching up a pouch of oriental flavored Ramen noodles. She sets the crinkled pouch on the counter, walks into the bathroom and closes the door. When she comes out most of her water has evaporated.
I write twelve pages of poetry and fall asleep on the toilet for forty-five minutes with my pants around my ankles and no shit in the toilet. Alyssa wakes me and then closes the door behind her. That night I am too drunk to climb the ladder to the loft.
States where a majority of residents agreed with the statement "I have old-fashioned values about family and marriage," bought 3.6 more subscriptions per thousand people than states where a majority disagreed. A similar difference emerged for the statement "AIDS might be God's punishment for immoral sexual behaviour."
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